


Time Heals All, but Scars Remain

by Moons_of_Avalon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Identity, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 05:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11098146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moons_of_Avalon/pseuds/Moons_of_Avalon
Summary: Bucky and Steve are reunited, recovering together from their separate and shared traumas. But no matter how good things get, the wounds of the past are always ready to break open again





	Time Heals All, but Scars Remain

Dark cell. Cold floors. Cruel hands. 

They’re always the first things to come back. Every time he returns to this nondescript place, to this indistinct time, those are the constants, the memories that reach out like hooks, biting through his skin and dragging him here whenever he has the gall to try and slip into silent sleep.

The soldier’s body is rigid; strapped down he realizes, his chest pressed against a hard table, his limbs bound to the legs. He’s spread open, immobile and helpless as hands move across his skin, blunt nails scraping over welts from a whip. He can feel the wounds pulsing, fresh and heavy, on his back and his ass, blood from his torn skin trickling down over his hole, which is open and raw, clenching around air.

Someone grips his ass, spreading him and squeezing out a new wave of sticky blood, the coppery scent poisoning the already thick air. A palm comes down sharply on his skin, splattering blood and shattering pain like glass shards through his body. 

He doesn’t scream. They hate when he screams, it only makes them hurt him worse.

“Make sure those straps are still tight.” The order is barked from the darkness around him. American English, of course. The Russians never did this is him. They only hurt him when they had to, and then they just threw him back into stasis when they were done with him. He was an object to them, a tool to be used and maintained. Now he’s a victim, and his owners luxuriate in their victim’s suffering.

Being an object was preferable.

He makes no noise when the straps around his limbs are tightened, biting into his skin. It could be worse; the restraints could have spikes to dig deep and gouge his flesh. 

“Good,”his handler says. He knows it must be a handler. Handlers were always in charge of things like this, but exactly who it is, or how many people might be with him is impossible to see in all this darkness. For a moment, the soldier thinks he’s returned to one of the many times he was blindfolded, his desperate attempts to gauge what might next befall him an added amusement for his torturers, until he sees the glint of his metal arm, reflecting some unknown source of light. His arm is secured to the table by an electromagnet, he can hear the faint humming of the generator keeping it powered, the static hiss a cruel reminder of all the times electricity has played a part in his torment. 

Fingers skate over his hole, and though the soldier tenses instinctively when they try to press inside, his attempts at staving off the intrusion do little good. They’ve been using him, enjoying him, for too long and his body is gaping now, but pain still burns in his core as he’s stretched once again, his handler’s fingers digging in and prying him open even wider.

“Look at that,” the man behind him purrs, inviting the others in the room to stare at his shame. “Its cunt looks so much better after a good fuck, don’t you think?”

The men around him laugh in agreement, and the soldier jolts when sharp hits come down against his back. He bites his tongue, trying not to cry out, not even to whimper, but when the fingers inside him pull and scrape, threatening to tear him, he can’t help but flinch, pressing up on his toes in a desperate attempt to get away, to prevent his body from being ruined any more.

Someone grabs his hair, yanking his head back sharply so another hand can whip across his face, unforgiving knuckles cracking against his jaw. He yelps––another failing in his already weakened state––but freezes at once, the cold reality of his mistake sinking in his stomach.

“Seems our little slut has forgotten what it’s good for,” the handler says. Metal flashes in the soldier’s periphery, and he can strain his eyes just enough to see a switchblade slice through the air. “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

The soldier’s breath picks up as the blade disappears from his view, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Men laugh around him, but his head is held in place as seconds tick by, waiting, waiting, waiting––

Pain ignites in his upper back, the nauseating pain of a dull knife being dragged across skin, carving so deep he swears he can feel it scrape his ribs, his lungs, down into his stomach where acid churns around nothing, rising in his throat, scalding him from the inside out. He’s screaming before he even remembers he has a voice, his body jerking against the hands and restraints that hold him down and give him no relief. The pain doesn’t stop, it only grows, cutting, twisting, tearing, scarring––

“Bucky!”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and he flinches as light breaks across his field of view. Drawn curtains greet him, fluttering gently. Steve’s hand moves through his hair, strong arms wrapped around his shaking body. 

“Bucky?”

Steve’s voice is softer this time, bordering on a plea, but Bucky doesn’t lift his head, just presses his forehead against Steve’s bare chest and breathes. In and out, in and out, until the scent of his lover’s skin has quelled the nausea in his stomach.

He remembers now, how they’d dozed off together on the couch after making lazy love and barely finishing the takeout they’d ordered. Enough to feed a small army, he’d joked, which turned out to be a lot even for them. 

A summer breeze flows through the window, covering Bucky’s skin with warmth, and he sighs as the cold sweat of panic is lifted from his skin. His nightmare is a pale ghost now, hovering at the back of his mind, silenced for the time being, but waiting, always waiting.

“Buck…?”

The quiver in Steve’s voice makes him look up, and his heart drops when he sees tears clinging to Steve’s eyelashes. Steve’s arms are holding tighter to him now, his leg wrapping around Bucky’s thigh to pull him somehow closer still, clinging desperately. 

At once, Bucky’s pushing himself up to lean over his lover, his metal hand cupping Steve’s cheek. His thumb rests over those soft lips, and the heat from Steve’s breath flows through him, another anchor in reality. “I’m ok, Stevie,” he says. “I’m here, I promise.”

Steve chokes on a humorless laugh, his hand covering Bucky's, pressing it firmly to his cheek. “I couldn’t wake you,” he says. “You were all tense, and your face…like you were hurting…”

Bucky lets out a breath and closes his eyes, his forehead resting against Steve’s, their lips a hair’s breadth away from each other, seeking out contact on instinct. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Don’t you dare,” Steve retorts. “It’s not your fault.”

It isn’t his fault, he knows that. And yet he still can’t help the ache in his stomach whenever he sees Steve worry… Nothing could make him forget a lifelong drive to protect the person who’s always been his one and only.

His eyes open again to find bright blue gazing up at him, ever penetrating and insistent. “I’m ok,” he repeats. “Just a bad dream, don’t worry.”

Steve nods, but he doesn’t believe him. Those eyes can’t hide anything. Bucky feigns a smile, but it lasts only a moment once Steve’s hand moves down his back, right over the word carved into his skin.

Slut…Whore…Toy…Nothing…

He flinches, his whole body going rigid as the words flash through his mind, as cruel as the knife had been on his skin. Steve backs off instantly, his hand returning to the safe region of Bucky’s shoulder, but the damage is done. The warm air does nothing for Bucky now, he shivers in spite of it. 

“Bucky, look at me.”

He does, quick to obey an order, but when a gentle touch cups his face, moving over his lips and through his hair, relief shivers through him, his distress cooled by clear blue. It’s ok, he’s with Steve, he tells himself. He’s not going to be hurt. He’s not going to be hurt.

“Is that what you were dreaming about?” Steve asks softly. Bucky knows at once that he means the scars, the reminder carved into him. He nods, his voice still trapped somewhere beneath the lump in his throat, but Steve doesn’t need words. He simply nods in return, and when Bucky bows his head, he kisses Bucky’s hair.

It would be impossible to hide those scars from his lover and Bucky’s never really tried to do so, but they’ve never discussed them. Steve hasn’t asked, and Bucky’s never been keen to offer up that particular memory…or any of the other fragments he’s retained. 

Steve cups the back of his head, his lips brushing against Bucky’s hair once more as he draws in a deep breath. Bucky knows what’s coming, he can hear the question quiver in Steve’s mind.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Does he want to? Does he want those images in Steve’s head so they can creep into his dreams? No. No, he does not. But does he need to? That answer doesn’t come so easily…

He looks up into Steve’s face,the open acceptance in his eyes, the worried curl of his full lips… He sighs, taking Steve’s hand is his own and pressing a kiss to the palm.

“Make us some coffee?”

There’s a hint of a fall in Steve’s face, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, Buck, no problem.”

Bucky flashes a warped smile, pressing his lips to Steve’s before pulling back. Steve stands, grabbing for his discarded underwear before making his way to the kitchen. Bucky doesn’t bother with dressing, just plants his feet on the sturdy wooden floor and does his best to breath again. In and out, in and out…it should never be this hard.

Steve’s sketchbook catches his eye, and his gaze wanders over to the pages, tucked halfway under the couch. Or perhaps kicked there in their rush to the nearest flat surface, he thinks with a little grin. The drawing’s a simple sketch of him and Peggy laughing together, surely one among many in Steve’s collection now. Bucky stares at the image of his old uniform, his old face, their old life…it all seems so impossibly far away now, and yet if he closes his eyes, it can seem as if it was just yesterday that the three of them were together.

He hears water boiling in the kitchen, and glances over his shoulder to see Steve leaning against the counter, his eyes far away, his brow furrowed. In moments like these, when Steve doesn’t know he’s being watched, the years between the old and new read so painfully clear on his face. He’s lost so much, and he’s had to be so strong. To carry on as if he isn’t burdened day in and day out with more pain than most people will ever know.

A knot wrenches in Bucky’s stomach at the thought of having to burden him with even more, but maybe leaving questions unanswered would be more cruel. The anxiety, the pain, the horror and the fear are already there in Steve’s mind, multiplied by the lack of information, the infinite possibilities.

Maybe it is time for him to finally know. And maybe it will take the lead out of Bucky’s chest to finally say the words out loud.


End file.
